


Chill

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Angst, Child Abuse, Coercion, Emotional Manipulation, Grooming, Guilt, Kissing, M/M, Mind Games, Molestation, Sadstuck, Sibling Incest, Sloppy Makeouts, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-01-23 16:34:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18553591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A stranger makes Dave and his Bro an offer they can't refuse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Changed the title to one I like a little better. Everything else is the same.

Your Bro is bashing on your bedroom door, and it’s so loud you can hear it through your headset, even over the end credit music to that piece of shit movie John roped you into watching with him _._

“Aw, dammit. Hold up a sec, John, my Bro’s dickriding me again.”

You quickly mute your mic and yank your headset off, tossing it down on your desk. “Come in,” you shout over the ceaseless knocking, before quietly muttering to yourself, “ _Douche_.”

Bro pushes the door open and stands there in the doorway for a moment, taking in the pigsty that is currently your bedroom, looking everywhere but at you.

“Dude, what the hell do you want?” you bitch at him, spinning around in your computer chair. “I’m kinda occupied here.”

You wish he’d just get to the point, tell you what he wants and then leave so you can go on talking to your friends. If he’s here to cuss you out about the state of your room, or the fact you haven’t left it in days, he can save it because you don’t care. It’s not like you’re forcing him to come in here and look at it, or at you.

Your Bro steps over your discarded dirty underwear, and a wet towel that's been there so long it's starting to smell, before taking a seat on your bed. He rests his hands on his lap, still won’t look you in the eye, and he’s being so weird it’s starting to freak you out. He never comes in here like this and usually can’t be bothered with you. You’re lucky if you cross paths with him once a day at this point so whatever’s got him in here wanting to chat with you just makes you nervous.

“What’s with you?” you ask him, swivelling around in your chair so you’re facing him. “Dude, what do you want? Spit it out already ‘cause like I said, I’m busy.” You didn’t realize until now that you’re actually legitimately pissed at him for ignoring you for days and weeks on end, because you suddenly _really_ want him to know you don’t have time for him, just like he hasn’t got time for you.

Bro scrubs a hand over his face and says, “Listen, you can tug on your dick later, kiddo. First I gotta talk to you.”

“Fine. Talk.” You fold your arms across your chest and lean back in your chair, staring at him while you wait for him to just get on with it. Whatever it is, it must be bad because he’s still looking anywhere but at you.

“You know, you should clean this shit up, you dirty lil’ asshole. And take a shower, yeah?” Bro says as he looks around your room, and you know he’s stalling. It’s starting to piss you off.

“Fine. I will. You done now, man? Like, is that it? You want me to clean my room? I’m doin’ it. Now get out, ‘cause you’re being sketchy as fuck right now.”

“No. Shut that shit off.”

You gape a little and gesture at the computer. “What shit—this? Aw, come on, man, I’m—

“Just fuckin’ do it.” You shut your mouth real quick and do as you’re told. Something about your Bro’s tone tells you not to fuck with him right now.

The room is quiet—too quiet now—without the constant hum of your computer tower. You get up, step over a few random objects on your floor, and sit next to Bro on the bed.

“What’s goin’ on with you, man?”

Your Bro leans back a little and looks at the ceiling. “We’re broke, little dude.”

You’re speechless for a little while, confused and unsure what to say. “Er…okay?” You’re not sure why your Bro is telling you any of this, or how he thinks you can help. You’re not even old enough to get a job yet or else you would.

Guilt washes over you fast, your mind running at a million miles an hour trying to think of ways you can help him, because you know your Bro has done a lot for you and you’re just a lazy little shit who sits on your butt all day while he works for both of you. You feel guilty for being pissed at him for not being around more, for not paying you enough attention. Clearly he’s had other things on his mind.

“What about the website?” you blurt out. Because your Bro had never let you know it was even kind of in trouble, and you’d always thought he was making thousands on it a month.

“Believe it or not, puppet porn’s a fickle business, Dave,” Bro tells you. “It’s been sinkin’ money for a while now and we’ve been barely gettin’ by on savings. This month’ll be the first we can’t even make the rent.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

You’re both quiet for a long while before you say, “I wish there was something I could do, man. If there was a way for me to bring in money, you know I would, but—”

“Actually, that’s kinda why I’m here,” Bro interrupts you. “I gotta ask you somethin’.”

You blink a few times, confused. “Um…okay. Sure. What’s up?”

“It’s probably easier if I just show ya.”

“Okay.”

Your Bro digs around in his pocket and pulls out a folded-up square of paper, passing it to you. You take it from him and unfold it, scanning the page for a few seconds before it dawns on you that it’s a printed out personal message from Bro’s website. You read a few lines and instantly your stomach drops and your face grows hot.

_Dude, you are LUCKY to have such a cute, fuckable little brother. What I wouldn’t give to watch you two sloppy-kiss for just ten minutes. (And just in case you’re wondering, yes. I am serious. You set up the private stream, send me the key, and all you’ll have to do next is name your price. Truly. ANYTHING.)_

Beneath the message is an attached screen-shot. Of _you_. Standing in the kitchen in just a shirt and your underwear, getting some water from the tap. All of a sudden you feel filthy, anxious, like you want to scrub your skin off. Some internet creeper has been looking at your body and thinking about you in a nasty way and you didn’t even know about it. You’d thought you were safe to walk around your own apartment in as few clothes as you wanted. You were _supposed_ to be safe.

“What the fuck, dude?” You pass the paper back to your Bro, slapping it against his chest, wanting it as far away from you as possible. You can feel him studying your face for a reaction and so you try not to show how upset you really are.

“Dave,” Bro starts, and he sounds uncharacteristically gentle, like he feels guilty for hurting you. “The cam must’ve picked you up for just a few seconds before I cut it. I didn’t do that shit on purpose. You think I want a buncha fuckin’ internet perves fappin’ over my baby bro?”

You shrug and turn away from him. “Whatever, it’s just fucked up is all.”

“I know.”

“Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

“No. I gotta ask you somethin’. Did you read the message?”

“Yeah…” you say slowly.

“Well, whadya think?”

You let out a short burst of laughter, because surely your Bro can’t be fucking serious with this shit. He doesn’t laugh with you though, just looks at you with a face like he’s at a funeral and you realize then that he’s actually being straight with you.

“You….want me to make out with you on camera?” Even saying it out loud makes you feel dirty and you can’t look your Bro in the eye anymore. Not now that you know what’s on his mind. And that it involves you.

“We’re talkin’ about a lotta fuckin’ money here, kid," he explains. "Enough to fix our problems for a couple’a months at least. I know it’s a lot to ask of ya but I wouldn’t even be askin’ if there was any other way. We should jump on this shit. It’s easy money. Fuckin' dumb money.”

You swallow hard and rub at your elbow. “I dunno. Like, I gotta be honest with you. This is really, really fucked up, man. Even for you. Like, completely new depths of fuckin’ seedy. How are you even entertaining this?”

“Desperation,” Bro answers fast. “We need the cash, little dude.”

You rub your arm, trying to calm your nerves and initial sense of revulsion. “Desperation aside, man, there’s some things you just don’t do and this has gotta be one of ‘em. Right?”

“Just think about it. Ain’t nothin’ but a kiss.” Your Bro gets up to leave and you say to his back, “Do I have a choice in this? Like, are you asking me or telling me?”

Bro looks back down at you and scoffs. “’Course you gotta fuckin’ choice. I ain’t gonna pin ya down and tongue-rape you, kid.”

You flush hard. “Okay. Will you at least tell me how much we’re gonna shake him down for?”

Bro sits back down next to you. “Yeah. I’m thinkin’ five large.”

You’re a little surprised by this figure. “Seriously? That’s it? Dude, he told you to _name your price_ , right? So why not go big or go home?”

“Just let me handle that shit.”

You shrug and say, “Okay. Honestly, I’m more creeped out by the fact you’d stick your tongue down my throat for five grand. Before this, I wouldn’t have considered touching you for anything less than a cool mill.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. But seriously, though, why can’t we ask for more?” You don’t understand your Bro’s thinking here. If you’re going to do something so disgusting to each other, you might as well ask for as much as you can or at least that’s what makes the most sense to you.

Bro just says, “Trust me, alright?” which are fighting words coming from someone who’s asking his underage brother to do something like this.

“Sure,” you deadpan.

“Will you think about it?”

You take a deep breath. “Yeah,” you tell him. You think about your Bro kissing you, about him slipping you his tongue, and your stomach lurches. It’s so gross and _wrong_. But you know he needs you right now and this is actually something you can do for him; a way you can finally contribute and you know he’ll be pissed at you if you pussy out and say no.

“It’s nothin’ right?” you say then, trying to convince yourself as much as him. “A kiss—it’s so low-grade it barely even counts as child molestation.”

“Hey. Don’t joke about that shit,” Bro says, his voice hard. He gets up and goes for the door. Without looking back at you, he says again, “Just think about it, alright?”

You stare at the door for a long time after he’s gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to hell for this, buuuuut.... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

It’s a few days later that he corners you in the kitchen while you’re making ramen, leans back against the counter and stares at your head until you turn around and face him.

“So. You down to clown or what?” he asks, arms folded, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the goddamn world.

“Huh?” You pretend you don’t know what he’s talking about, because ever since he came into your room that day you’ve been acting like he didn’t. Hoping that maybe he just had some momentary lapse in his sanity and has somehow forgotten that he actually asked you to kiss him for money.

But you know him so much better than that.

“Are we gonna do this thing or not?”

You turn around, swallow hard and flick the stove off. “Yeah,” you tell him, trying to keep your voice level. “Mm-hm. For sure. Let’s make that shit happen.” You nod but he can’t see your face; can’t see how nervous you actually are. You grab a fork and poke at your under-cooked noodles, stirring them and leaning over the pot so you cop a face full of steam.

When he’s still there a couple of minutes later, staring at your back, you glance over your shoulder and say, “What, like right now?”

His shoulder twitches a little, the slightest shrug, and you turn around again, slide the pot over onto the bench and take a deep breath. You figure your ramen will probably be cold once you’re done with all this bullshit.

“Yeah. Good. Fine.” You wipe your hands down on your shirt. “Should I just…” You feel uncertain, so awkward you don’t know what to do next, and are hyper-aware of every gesture that you make.

“Wait.” He eyes you up a bit, steps forward a little and peers down at you. “You wanna hang out for five minutes first, practice a little?” He thumbs over at the futon.

You make a face at him. “Seriously? No, gross. Let’s just do this shit, dude. No practice required.”

“What? I’m only askin’ ‘cause I know you ain’t never kissed nobody before.”

“Whatever, man. You don’t know anything. I’ve kissed, like, a lot. All the kissing. Boys, girls, fuckin’ aliens. You name it, I’ve kissed it.”

There’s a hint of a smirk on his face at your pathetic denials, and the rising blush on your face. You hate that he knows you the way he does, can always see right through you in a way you can’t with him.

You brush past him as you head on out to the living room, arms hugged around yourself tight. You sit down on the edge of the futon while you await his next instructions, jiggling your leg a bit. He doesn’t talk to you for a long time, just fucks around on his computer, getting shit set up, and it makes you nervous waiting around like this, all the anticipation.

You have no idea what to expect. Who even is this guy? Will you even be able to see him? Is he seriously going to watch you and Bro kiss and bust a nut over it?

Stupid, you think. Of course he is. The knowledge makes you feel dirty and exposed and you wonder if your Bro feels the same way. He must, you reason, because of course he can’t actually want to do this shit with you either. But you suppose desperate times call for desperate measures and the reality is that he’s just so much better than you at hiding his unease, and getting right on past it.  

You wish you could be more like him. Chill, impassive, able to just brush this crap off like it’s nothing. Yup, just make out with your Bro for cash like that shit’s normal and get right on with your night like nothing even happened. Sweet.

You jump a little when he says your name, and look over at him. He swivels around in his computer chair and pats his knee. “Get on over ‘ere.”

Your stomach lurches but you push yourself to your feet, try not to sway as you walk over to him. He watches your face, his own completely blank, and pats his knee again.

You stare at it. “What, like right there?”

He doesn’t say anything, just waits for you to either do it or pussy out. You feel frozen to the spot for a minute. You haven’t sat on his knee since you were tiny, and even then the occasions where he let you do that were few and far between. Only when he was drunk and feeling unusually generous with his time and affection would he ever touch you, let you touch him.

He can’t really want you to sit in his lap now, because that’s just so _sleazy_ , but of course he does because how else is the webcam going to capture both of you?

You stand there like a moron for a few more seconds, because you’re suddenly very conscious of what you’re wearing—or not wearing. Your underwear, and a baggy t-shirt that once belonged to your Bro. And it isn’t like it’s hugely revealing either on account of it being so huge on you. You’re swimming in it, and it completely covers you, hangs down around your thighs, and yet you instinctively tug it down anyway because you suddenly _really_ don’t want your brother to look at you. You’ve never been self-conscious about your body around him, but that’s because you never thought he was looking.

You guess he’s looking now, though, because he watches your hands as you tug the shirt down around your thighs then slowly, lets his gaze travel back up to your face.

“Dave,” he says, and you know this is the first and last warning you’re going to get before he pulls the plug. It’s either shit or get off the pot, kid.

You guess you’re getting on.

You take the plunge, bracing yourself with a hand on his shoulder as you plant one knee on either side of him, straddling his lap. You rest your other hand on his shoulder and force yourself to look him in the eye. Neither of you are wearing shades and it’s uncomfortably intimate, being this close to him when he never lets you get this close to him unless you’re strifing.

It’s almost _nice_ , like you’re hugging him, as if you could rest your head on his shoulder and just let him hold you against his warm chest like he actually loves you or something. But then you remember this isn’t a cuddle session, you have a job to do, and then everything is weird and confusing again.

You need to focus; your Bro needs you right now.

He slips his arms around your waist, leans into your body as he types on the keyboard. You rest your chin on his shoulder, take the opportunity to breathe in his weirdly comforting scent of Axe and sweat and pot.

“Is he there?” you ask, trying not to sound like you’re freaking out.

“Uh-huh.”

“Can he see us?”

“Not yet.”

“What’s he saying?”

Your Bro snorts softly and you hear more clicking keys. “He says he wants to chat with ya for a minute.”

Your heart starts to hammer. You tense and immediately say, “Bro. I don’t—” But he cuts you off with a reassuring squeeze to your hip.

“Relax. Not a fuckin’ chance you’re talkin’ to him,” he mutters while he types some more. You’re not sure if he’s directing that at you, or at the pervert who wants to actually talk to you.

You feel moderately reassured that your Bro isn’t going to let this go too far. That he doesn’t want you to actually have any contact with the creep on the other side of that computer screen.

He keeps typing for a few seconds then murmurs, “We’re on.”

Your heart starts to hammer and your mouth feels dry. You’re genuinely starting to second-guess whether or not you can actually go through with this shit. You have no idea what you’re doing—as gross as it sounded at the time you should have taken your Bro up on his offer to hang out and practice for five—but it’s too late now and you’re freaking out, literally fucking freaking out—

Your Bro must feel how tense and shaky you are against him because he lays a palm flat on the small of your back and rubs a little circle. When he speaks, his lips are close to your ear. “Not too late to back out, little dude.”

You let out a long, shuddery breath, clutch at the fabric of his shirt. “No one’s ever gonna see this, are they?” you whisper.

“Fuck no.”

“What if he records it?” The mere thought of this floating around somewhere on the net, a video of you and your Bro macking on, is something you just cannot cope with. It’s decidedly extremely fucking uncool—totally off-brand for you.

The thought of anyone but you, Bro, and Mr. Pervert knowing about it makes you want to hide up in the crawlspace for the rest of eternity.

“He can’t,” Bro tells you. “He won’t. _Chill_.” He rubs your back some more and you nod, because you’re like putty in his hands whenever he throws you even the barest scraps of his affection. You hate it.

But you can’t let him down now, not when he’s being so considerate with you. In the end it’s him letting you know in no uncertain terms that you don’t have to do anything, that’s he’s not forcing you to do something you don’t want, that has your mind made up.

“I’m good,” you tell him, taking a deep breath. You squeeze his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

He grabs his phone, and you twist around to see him fiddling with the clock app, setting the timer. Literally _ten minutes_ , which seemed like such a small amount of time to you at first but you now realize will actually be an eternity when you’re doing something like kissing your big brother.

He sets the phone down and slips his arms around your waist again, leans back in his chair so you’re looking at each other. You swallow and lick your lips, find yourself staring at his mouth.

“Like a band-aid, right?” you breathe. You duck forward fast and press your lips to his. He takes it in stride, pulling your waist in closer to him so your small chest is flush against his broad, muscular frame.

He keeps his lips closed as you give him a few long pecks, doesn’t try to slip you any tongue, and when you break apart to breathe you’re surprised by the sensation of your mouths kind of clinging together, and the way it makes your sensitive lips tingle.

“Nice,” Bro says, and you flush so hot you can feel your pulse in your cheeks.

“Hold up.” He stares past your head at the screen, which presumably reflects the image of the two of you together. You don’t want to look, can’t bring yourself to read any of the perverted messages you're certain this guy is probably typing, no doubt one-handed, while he faps over you and your Bro.

Bro suddenly tugs at the hem of your shirt, which has ridden up a little since you straddled his lap, exposing the back of your thighs. He yanks your shirt down so it brushes the inside of your knees and says, “Don’t give this pervert too big of a show. He gets what he pays for and nothin’ else.”

He shifts the chair around a little, so the guy is getting a side-on view of the two of you and it will be impossible for him to stare at your butt, which was probably getting him all hot and bothered.

“C’mon. Clock’s tickin’.” Bro lightly pinches the back of your thigh and you lean into him again, close so your face is just inches apart from his. He brings a hand to the back of your head, gentle but guiding, and it causes your stomach to do somersaults as he pulls you into him for another kiss.

He takes the lead on this one because the small pecks you gave him before must have made it obvious you have no clue what you’re doing. His mouth is warm on yours, and the pressure at the back of your head keeps you still against him. He gives you a few closed-mouth kisses first before he angles his head a bit and swipes his tongue against the seam of your lips.

You jump a little, your fingers shaking as you clutch at his shoulders, but you try to just roll with it because the guy asked for sloppy kisses and if he’s paying, you know your Bro’s going to provide. It’s unsettling but you open your mouth a little and the second you do, Bro’s tongue is plunging inside, rubbing against yours, and you make a little noise of shock at the unfamiliar sensation.

You cringe and just hope it didn’t sound like a moan, because you don’t want the guy watching to think you’re loving this, and you don’t want your Bro thinking the same thing either. Even if your stomach is starting to feel kind of tight and warm and you find yourself pushing your hips closer and closer into your Bro, like they have a mind of their damn own because your ass is suddenly pretty firmly pressed to his zipper.

Bro keeps kissing you like that for a while, one of his hands at the back of your head and the other clamped firmly on your hip, flicking his tongue against your tongue, licking your lips when you try to pull apart for a breath.

You start thinking it’s not so bad—you can see this through no problems; wasn’t even that hard if this is as difficult as it gets— but then your Bro’s hands leave the back of your head, your hip, and he’s sliding warm, calloused palms up and down your bare thighs instead. It makes you shudder, but not with disgust.

The way he’s touching you, coupled with the sensation of his lips moving against yours, his tongue plunging into your mouth, is starting to turn you on because _no one_ has ever touched your body the way he’s touching it and it causes a spark of unwanted arousal to hit the tip of your dick. You’re getting hard, he’s going to know, and this whole thing is going to be so much worse now when it’s over.

You try to wriggle away, get some distance between your bodies, calm yourself down, but your Bro holds you firm to him.

“Open your mouth. Stick your tongue out,” he orders, and you whimper a little at the low, gruff tone of his voice. You do what you’re told, though, and groan when his tongue flutters against yours because you can just imagine whoever’s watching getting off on this moment because it must look totally fucking obscene.

You’re not even kissing anymore; it can’t be called kissing when all he’s doing is flicking his tongue against you, sucking on your tongue like you’re in a porno. Your chin feels wet with your shared spit, and you can feel his stubble scrape rough against your smooth skin. You wonder if it’ll leave you with a rash later on.

His hands are still rubbing up your thighs only this time they slip right up under your shirt to grip a handful of your ass and you jump with the shock. He’s squeezing you, rocking you into him, and you didn’t ask for a fucking ass massage, that definitely wasn’t part of the deal, but he’s giving it to you anyway. A part of you wonders if he’s actually getting off on this shit, if he likes touching you this way, and that thought leaves you drowning in a bunch of emotions you can’t even name.

You’re turned on but also freaked out about it, so when he takes it too far and slaps your ass with both hands, is rough with you, his grip on your flesh so firm you actually feel your cheeks separating and for a moment feel so exposed to him that you choke a bit, you hit his shoulder to get him to stop.

“Don’t,” you splutter against his mouth, and he just slides his hands away from your ass then, back to your thighs, squeezing them a little as he nips at your lips.

You slip down his lap a bit, trying to put a bit of distance between your bodies again, and you brush over an unmistakable hard bulge at the front of his pants. You freeze, because surely he must know that you felt it, but he acts like he doesn’t, starts kissing you again, pushing his tongue past your lips.

Just then the timer starts beeping and everything stops. It’s over. Your Bro goes still, his lips still clinging to yours for a few seconds, before he abruptly withdraws from you and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He stares at you, his face completely unreadable, and sits back in his chair.

“Done. Shit, we nailed it, kid,” he says, his voice not wavering even a little, and you have trouble meeting his eyes.

Sheepishly, you shift away from him, wriggle out of his lap, and try to get to your feet. You’re wobbly, and he must notice because he grabs hold of your skinny elbow and holds you steady until you look like you’re ready to stand on your own two feet again.

“Listen, I got some shit to sort out now. You don’t have to stick around or nothin’.”

Your heart lurches a bit then, because you feel a little discarded by him, like you’ve served your purpose and he doesn’t want you around anymore. You’re being dismissed. You try to look impassive, mirror the way he looks at you, and just shrug your shoulders.

“Okay, dude, I’ll be in my room.”

“Sure.” He swings the chair away from you and starts typing again.

You leave your now likely cold ramen in the kitchen and head to your room, shut the door, lie on your bed and curl up on your side. You try not to feel too stupid, or regretful, because your Bro doesn’t and you know you just did him a massive favour.

You must have pleased him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not intend for this to get so dark, but here we are!

In the days that follow you try your hardest to just forget about it the way your Bro has. Neither of you dare mention That Thing that occurred the other night and you know it’s for the best because it was weird, and super wrong, and you really shouldn’t be thinking about it at all but fuck it, you are.

You _want_ to forget but you’re thinking about it nearly every second of the damn day, whether you like it or not. At first you think you’re doing pretty solid with this shit, because you’re still able to act like whatever passes for normal around him: Bust his balls because there’s no food in the fridge and you’re fucking hungry and swords aren’t _food_ , you complete nutcase. On the weekend show him the latest pages to your dumb webcomic, pretend you’re not all bouncy and a little proud when you manage to pull a faint snicker from him.

Everything’s going okay, at least outwardly, except for those few moments he does something that gets your head all fucked up, puts massive dents in your chill façade. Like on Thursday afternoon when he reminds you to do your homework because he doesn’t want to get another stupid phone call from your year supervisor, reminding him that _Dave is falling behind again_. Get your shit together, he tells you, and shoves you by the shoulder into your room, locks the door and doesn’t let you out until you’ve done everything you were supposed to do. Or on Friday night, when he drops you at your friend’s house and, just before you get out of his truck, he tells you to be a good boy, behave yourself.

Those moments that before were nothing are everything now, make you feel sick and a little panicky, because you can’t reconcile him acting like your dad with the memory of his hands grabbing your ass like that; the way he made you pop a boner, or the way he apparently got one too when he was touching you.

You know the anxiety will probably level out soon, when the memory grows more distant and you can finally accept that it really was just for money and whatever you, or he, felt in the heat of the moment was just some inevitable physical reaction to all that touching, making out. Or something like that.

It doesn’t help that he’s more physically affectionate with you than he’s ever been before. Nothing over the top, but enough that you notice it and it's weird. He ruffles your hair, puts his arm around you sometimes, and idly rubs your ankle when you sit next to him on the futon. A few nights in a row he even lets you order whatever take-out you want and you know you should be chuffed as hell that he’s being so good to you, but the novelty of it all loses some of its lustre when you can’t figure out if it’s because he’s pleased with you, guilty, or something else.  

It’s the something else that bothers you the most. Especially when a part of you is aware that if he felt for you the way he was supposed to—like the way you know John’s dad cares for him— there’s no way he could have entertained the whole seedy stream idea for even a second.

But he’s not like John’s dad. You know he’s got a screw, or fifteen, loose and growing up with him you’ve always felt like you’re the sane one. You figure in the aftermath then that at least part of what you're going through is your fault, because you could have said no, racked your brains and suggested something a little less freaky. He gave you that out, more than once, and you pushed on like you wanted it or something.

Sometimes you catch him looking at you when you’re sitting together on the futon, and you wonder if he thinks you wanted it too.

You’re so aware of the moments he looks at you now because you’re sure it’s in a different way. How could it not be? There’s no way in hell he can see you as his kid anymore when you acted so slutty around him, rubbing all up on him like you weren’t even doing it for money, and what if it’s true?

But when your Bro approaches you a couple of weeks later and places five hundred dollars cash in your hands, no questions asked, it reminds you it’s not. The money is real, he tells you you _earned_ that shit, and you can’t help feeling a little dirty with it, like it’s blood money or something; only instead of your blood you gave up your body. Whored bits of yourself out to your brother with barely any resistance on your part at all.

Still, having this much money is a cheap thrill and it almost makes some of your anguish worth it. You’ve never even seen this much money before, let alone held it, and all you can think about for a while is all the cool shit you’re going to buy. That new game Egbert keeps riding you about. That book Lalonde brings up every time you talk to her. And food—more than you can eat in one day, even.

You try not to spend your cut all at once, though; just a little, and you hide the rest of it in a box in your dark room, just in case shit gets bad again later and you need to give it back to your Bro. Your precarious living situation is why you even have this money in the first place; you figure you should keep it then, even if it’s not much.

It’s all that’s on your mind later when you hesitantly ask your Bro, “Hey, how are we looking now?”

Your Bro doesn’t take his eyes off the TV, just manages a half-hearted grunt.

“The money, dude. Are we, like, set now? Is shit looking up? Or are we gonna be in more trouble down the road once we run out again?” It’s genuinely eating at you and you hate him for his poker-face, for never looking worried, or bothered, about anything.

That day he came into your room was the most bothered, the most worried, you think you’d ever seen him. It was also the most words he’d actually spoken to you in forever and a dark little part of you wonders now whether it was all just a ploy and he was running some mind-game on you, trying to coax you into feeling guilty so he was more likely to get the answer he wanted from you.

If that’s what he was doing, you fell right for that shit and you can’t think about it anymore or else you’ll just start hating him. You’ll never know the truth, anyway, unless he wants you to.

He picks up his beer, takes a sip and says, “We’re good. For now.” His answer does little to appease your anxiety.

You swallow hard and try to still your jiggling leg because it’s a nervous tell and your brother knows it.

“Okay, so… No more illicit web shows on the horizon?”

“Why you askin’, Dave?” Your Bro leans back against the futon, stretches his arm out behind your head.

“Just worried is all,” you answer honestly. “I wanna know if the money’s gonna last and if we’ll be alright now. Kinda like havin' a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in.”

“Let me worry about that shit. You’ve done enough.”

You’re quiet for a while before you finally just come right out with it, ask what’s been on your mind all along. “So… You ever hear from that weird dude again?”

“Yeah.”

You wait for him to elaborate, and when he doesn’t, you push, “Well? And?”

“Look, kid, it’s best if ya just don’t know.”

You hate it when he does this, suddenly decides you’re a dumb kid again whenever it suits him.

“What,” you press, “he wanted us to do something else? Just tell me, man. I can handle it.”

Your Bro sniffs a little, drains the rest of his beer before leaning forward and grabbing another from the coffee table, cracking it open with a hiss. “Nah,” he says. “You wouldn’t be down for it. S’cool.” The whole time he doesn’t look at you, and you feel so disregarded by him you want to get up and do something lame, like storm off to your room and slam the door.

He _knows_ you absolutely hate it when he says shit like that, challenges you, implies you’re not ‘down’ for something like he is and you’re just some wimpy little loser, not cool enough to do half the shit he’s game for because he’s fucking fearless and you’re not.

He lays the trap, and like the idiot you are, so desperate for his approval, you fall right into it.  

“You don’t know what I’m down for, dude,” you tell him, careful not to let your voice tremble. “Why don’t you lay it on me, huh? Pretty sure I can take it.”

He scratches at his stubble. “I dunno. It’s just you were bein’ so fuckin’ frigid with me that night I figured ya couldn’t handle more.” He’s gone straight for your guts now, managed to kick you right where it hurts and you don’t even know how he _does_ that, finds sore spots in you that you weren’t even aware existed.

You know you should feel totally grossed out by the things he’s saying, not confused and hurt and desperate to prove him wrong and _wow_ , maybe it’s both of you with the screws loose after all.

Still, it wounds you in a fucked up way to know he wasn’t pleased with your ‘performance’ like you thought he was, just thinks you’re frigid and inadequate and not worth shit. Even if it’s only because of you that the two of you even made the rent this month. You guess he’s forgotten all about that.

“I wasn’t being frigid,” you counter, and you know your tone sounds overly defensive but you can’t help it. “It was just weird when you fuckin’ grabbed my ass and spanked me, okay?”

He just shrugs and pulls on his beer. “Don’t sulk, man. Like I said, s’cool.”

“Just tell me what he said, Bro,” you snap, a little aggressive now. Tired of his nonchalant bullshit attitude. You don’t know why he has to go to the trouble of sounding like he doesn’t give a shit when you know that already. It’s his signature personality attribute.

“Yeah, I heard from him,” Bro answers finally, calm and flat as ever. “Offered more than my damn life’s worth to bend you over and fuck ya. Happy?”

Your pulse picks up and the blood drains from your face. You shift uncomfortably on the futon, feeling an urge to flee, and can’t look at him anymore.

Finally, you manage to stutter, “I… That’s just f-fuckin’ gross, man.” What you really want to ask is how often your Bro has actually heard from this dude, if he talks about you with that creep behind your back, if he’s even discussed a price. A price for taking your fucking virginity just like there was a price for your first kiss.

But you can’t bring yourself to ask those things or even think them, because you don’t think you want to know.

It doesn’t help when your Bro answers with, “Yeah. I told him you wouldn’t be into it. Chill.”

Almost a full minute passes before you say, “And you are?” You wipe your palms on the knees of your jeans because they’re starting to sweat, and your fingers are shaking.

Your Bro does look at you then, shifts his gaze from your eyes so he’s staring at your mouth for a few long seconds and you have to wonder if he’s doing it on purpose just to freak you out and if he is, you want to hit him because it’s fucking cruel to play with you like that right now.

He lets out a soft little snort, taking in the panicked state of you. “Look at you, kid. Relax, c’mon.” He ruffles your hair, sets his beer down on the coffee table and then grabs your legs, pulling them up into his lap.

He pulls your socks off, tosses them to the floor, and rubs one of your feet. His hands are large and warm and feel good, soothing, as they rub at your skin. You feel yourself relax a little, and he watches your face intently.

“Hey. C’mon. You chill?”

“Yeah,” you tell him, letting out a long breath. “I’m chill.”

“Listen to me.” He keeps rubbing at your feet, pulls them into him a little so you’re almost across his lap. “What’d I say to you last time?”

When you don’t answer, he reminds you. “You don’t have to do nothin’ you don’t want. You’re not into it, I’m not into it. Sometimes you’re so cool I forget you’re just a kid and ya don’t know shit about the world. But it’s all good, alright? Chill.” He rubs at your ankle, your calf, and turns around to face the TV again.

He keeps telling you to chill, but you can’t. Not when he keeps ramming at your emotions like this, saying cruel things in a way that sounds kind but still leaves you feeling all bruised up and bloody on the inside.

You shift closer to him on the couch, because it feels like nothing but being close to him is going to make this feel better. He lets you lean up against his arm, snickers at some dumb line in the movie you’re watching, and you nudge at his thigh and say, “Hey.”

He looks down at you. “Yeah. S’on your mind, kiddo?”

“I would, you know,” you tell him, and you regret it already but he’s roped you into it somehow and even if you’re aware of it you can’t back out. You can’t have him thinking you’re not cool anymore.

“Like, for us,” you add. “If you needed me to. I just wanted you to know.” _I am cool. I’m down for things just like you are_. _I can help us too_ , are all things you leave unsaid.

He stares at you for a good long while and then leans in, lets his lips brush your temple.

“I know,” he says, shaking your ankle gently and turning back to the TV. “You’re a good boy, Dave.”


End file.
